Mccoy Tyner Poem by Hans Ostrom

(1938-1920)

Once

in Berkeley, smoke like Bay fog lay
over heads of cool-hip-jazz-club-clientele &
waitresses slivered through tables/bodies/chairs,
kept drinks coming, ice and glass and liquid held aloft &

McCoy

- he hit the mthrfckn keys
so hard one time strings
popped & whipped like snakes out
‘the belly of the grand dark

piano

& the percussionist had some
mojo stuff hanging from racks—
bones, steel tubes, feathers—

all

humid and scratchy and knock-talk
click-back bicker-bock-a-zone
sounds, & McCoy was rippin and roarin,
working the gift

out

of Keyborderland. And the horns. It was a big
marrow-filling, ear-enlightening night. Outside
after encores:

cool, misty Berkeley. Had a look around.
Got in the '67 Camaro, drove back up I-80
to plain brown-cow Davis, college town,

brain

humming like the lowest pianoforte
E-note pedaled through the measures.